


White Winds Blow

by oswiin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya in Braavos, Arya in the Riverlands, Battle of the Bastards, Dark!Arya Stark, Dark!Jon Snow, F/M, Kinda Dark, Minor Character Death, Obsession, Robb's crown, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), Winds of Winter - sort of, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin
Summary: When Jon hears of Ramsay Bolton's marriage to 'Arya Stark', he tries to rescue her and is killed for oath-breaking. But Melisandre brings him back, and he is more intent on finding her than ever. Arya, posing as Cat of the Canals, hears of Jon's death and vows to deliver justice to those who killed him. Jon becomes obsessed with getting her back, and on her journey, Arya reunites with people she never thought to see again.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 87
Kudos: 199
Collections: Jonrya Week, Jonrya Week: January 2020





	1. Death and the Maiden

**Mercy**

**“I have no sister.” The words were knives.**

**You will be no one’s daughter, no one’s wife, no one’s mother.**

The first time Mercedene heard Arya Stark’s name, she had felt the night wolf bare her teeth within her soul. Standing at the entrance to the gate, she had watched two guards from King’s Landing complain about their journey and their dealings with the Iron Bank. Once that was over, they turned to gossip about the Stark girl who married a Bolton, and how much they’d enjoy raping her. She knew one of them; well, _she_ didn’t, but a girl did. And a girl hated him.

It was easy to seduce him. A man like Rafford ‘the sweetling’ didn’t care about a girl’s age, as long as she was small and weak. Mercy was small, but not weak. She had led him up five flights of stairs, half-eaten by worms, and into her small room. Dancing and giggling like a sprite, she had lit a candle, and checked her sleeve for the small blade she had concealed there. _The Many-Faced God would receive a soul that night._

Raff was easy, a man through and through. All she had to do was stroke his leg, and he barely felt the blade or the blood until she pointed it out. Once he did, he cried and screamed, and begged for mercy. _What a fragile little man he was._ Mercy played the perfect role – they both did, in fact – squeaking and protesting her terror, telling him a doctor wouldn’t come to this place no matter what.

That’s when she knew she had him. Behind the face, Arya Stark grinned, baring her teeth like a wolf with her prey. Raff had begged her to carry him, and that was when the Stark girl appeared, and Mercy smirked at the stuck, squealing pig before her. _See? You know your line, and so do I._ “Think so?” Raff didn’t have time to understand before his throat was slit, the red raining down across her floor. She knew that would be the end of Mercy. For a moment, that made her sad.

‘Valar morghulis,’ Arya whispered, but Raff was dead and did not hear. She sniffed. ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,’ she sang sadly. A foolish, giddy girl she’d been, but good hearted. She would miss her, and she would miss Daena and the Snapper and the rest, even Izembaro and Bobono.This death would be troublesome for the Sealord, and that envoy, she was certain

She would think about that later, though. _I am a wolf, and done with wooden teeth._

That night, after she arrived on time for her rape and threw Raff’s body into the canal, Mercy returned to the House of Black and White. She would not be Mercy anymore. She gave up that face to re-join the others; for one night, a girl wore the face of Arya Stark.

That night, she had the wolf dream. They were growing more vivid every day, and she sometimes thought she could hear her brothers howling once she woke. She chastised herself whenever that happened. _The wolf dreams belonged to Arya of House Stark. I am No-one._ Even as the girl repeated this chant every night, much like Arya’s list of names, she was not sure she believed it. That worried her more than anything.

The more dreams she had, the more she repeated her name, the less she believed. This made it easier for her thoughts to drift, in the kitchens at the House of Black and White, or at her new post with the infamous Black Pearl. Her thoughts belonged to Arya Stark, but they grew impossible to stave off. She thought of Arya’s brothers, Robb, Bran and Rickon, and her sister, Sansa. She tried not to wonder where they were, or what they were doing. _Probably dead_ , she thought dryly. Strangely, she did not feel anything when she thought that. Robb was most certainly dead; Arya had seen his body, his head severed with a wolf’s in its place.

A girl felt like that sometimes. Like her head had been cut off, like her father’s, and now she was half-wolf. The bloody corpses of Robb and Arya Stark had been left behind in the waters at the Twins, and now they ran as wolves.

As soon as this crossed her mind, a girl cut herself and there was blood in the onions. Umma smacked her with her spoon and she rushed to clean the wound. She knew it happened because Arya Horseface had reared her ugly head, and she was No-one now. It would be for the best; Arya Stark had watched her father’s head ruthlessly removed from his shoulders, had seen the bloodstained sword and the insane knight who wielded it, had killed, scraped, starved… survived.

She fixed her gaze on the cool stone as she let the water encompass her bloody finger, and felt it harden, perhaps permanently, into grim stare. She could feel the stone settle on her heart, and she began to let go of everyone she had once been: Arya. Arya Stark, Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface. Arry. Weasel, Nan, Squab, Salty, Cat of the Canals, Blind Beth, Mercy. The Ghost of Harrenhal, Nymeria… Little Sister…

A tear came to her eye. She thought she was past crying, but he always knew her better than she did, and he was always able to make her smile.

_Jon. Brother._

* * *

**Jon Snow**

Clydas, the old steward, was trembling as he handed over the letter. “I am being foolish, Lord Commander, but … this letter frightens me. See here?”

 _Bastard_ , was the only word written outside the scroll. No _Lord Snow_ or _Jon Snow_ or _Lord Commander_ . Simply _Bastard_ . And the letter was sealed with a smear of hard pink wax. “You were right to come at once,” Jon said. _You were right to be afraid._ He cracked the seal, flattened the parchment, and read.

_Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed in seven days of battle. I have his magic sword. Tell his red whore._

_Your false king’s friends are dead. Their heads upon the walls of Winterfell. Come see them, bastard. Your false king lied, and so did you. You told the world you burned the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Instead you sent him to Winterfell to steal my bride from me._

_I will have my bride back. If you want Mance Rayder back, come and get him. I have him in a cage for all the north to see, proof of your lies. The cage is cold, but I have made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell._

_I want my bride back. I want the false king’s queen. I want his daughter and his red witch. I want his wildling princess. I want his little prince, the wildling babe. And I want my Reek. Send them to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your black crows. Keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard’s heart and eat it._

_It was signed,_

_Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell._

Jon looked up from the parchment and dismissed all but Tormund Giantsbane, the great, white-haired wildling who couldn't read, and would never let slip something he shouldn't. As soon as the scent of Satin's beard faded away, he turned to Tormund. He must have looked pale. Pale and angry.

“Snow?” said Tormund. “You look like your father's bloody head just rolled out o' that paper.” Jon read it out to him. He expected Tormund to be angry, as angry as he was, not to frown and say the bastard was probably lying. “Mance was burned alive. I saw that red witch do it with me own two eyes.”

Jon did not dare reveal the truth, that Rattleshirt was burned, and Mance was sent to save his sister. Tormund did not believe, but Ramsay told too much truth to be wholly lying. “He has Lightbringer. He speaks of heads on the walls, of the spearwives and their number. No. There is truth in there.” The next words sickened him so he could barely choke them out. “And that bastard has my sister.”

Tormund wouldn’t dare argue with him, but when he asked what they would do, Jon had no answer. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand. _The Night’s Watch takes no part. I have no sisters, only brothers_ . _What you propose is nothing less than treason._ Jon thought of the other times he had tried to desert, all the reasons he should have long ago. He thought of Robb, snowflakes in his hair, of Bran climbing a tower wall and Rickon, running through the Godswood with Shaggy. He thought of Sansa, and how her marriage to a Lannister hadn’t stirred the same feelings in him.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ He thought of Arya, her brown hair and grey eyes, whacking his arm with the flat of her blade. _Needle._ It hurt, but he had found himself grinning like an idiot. _I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell… I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back…_

“I think we had best change the plan,” he said. When Jon and Tormund emerged from that room two hours later, they made straight for the Sheildhall, Horse and Rory at their side. Ghost tried to follow, but Jon wouldn’t allow it. He was in a dark mood, and Ghost always felt his moods. It would not do for him to savage Borroq’s boar this night.

The old, drafty feast hall of dark stone was packed when Jon and Tormund entered. When the Night’s Watch was larger and stronger, it’s walls had been hung with rows upon rows of brightly coloured shields; tradition decreed that, when a knight took the black, he set his former arms aside and take up the plain black of the Night’s Watch. Their discarded shields hung here.

The Wildlings here outnumbered the Crows hugely. Only two Queensmen had bothered to attend, Ser Narbert and Ser Benethon. The rest were conspicuous in their absence. Jon mounted the sagging platform at the end of the hall, Tormund at his side. He had to blow his warhorn to silence the room.

“I summoned you to make plans for the relief of Hardhome,” Jon Snow began nervously, dreading what their response might be. “Thousands of Free Folk are there, starving, and there are reports of dead things in the water. We must send help or let them die.” Jon looked around him. Marsh and Yarwyck sat to his left, Othell was with his builders, whilst Bowen sat with Wick Whittlestick, Left Hand Lew and Alf of Runnymudd. “I had hoped to lead the ranging myself but now find I cannot go. Instead, the ranging will be led by Tormund Giantsbane, known to you all.” Jon saw a flash of red at the back of the hall. The Lady Melsiandre had arrived.

“And where will you be, crow?” Borroq thundered. Mercifully, his great boar was nowhere to be seen. “Hiding here with you dog?”

“No,” Jon answered forcefully. His temper was not to be trifled with today. “I ride south.” He read them the letter Ramsay Snow had sent.

The Shieldhall went mad. Tormund blew his horn to calm them, but it only half worked.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” Jon reminded them when an ounce of quiet had returned. “It is not for us to oppose the Bastard of Bolton or to avenge Stannis Baratheon. This _creature_ who makes cloaks from the skins of women has sworn to kill you Lord Commander. He says he will cut my heart out, and I mean to make him answer for those words… but none of my brothers are required to forswear their vows.” No-one spoke; the hall echoed with their silence. “The Night’s Watch will make for Hardhome. I ride to Winterfell alone, unless…” Jon paused. “…is there any man here who will stand with me.”

The hall erupted again. Several Wildlings stood, whilst a few of the Night’s Watch left the hall altogether. It was no matter. He had his men; he did not need others. _I have my swords,_ he thought, _and we are coming for you, Bastard._

Tormund flashed him a gap-toothed grin, and Jon’s low spirits lifted a little. He left his Wildling force to get drunk and sought out first Queen Selyse, then Melisandre.

Horse and Rory fell in beside him as they left the Shieldhall and crossed the snowy courtyard. A cry rang out, shouting echoed through the castle… and a roar so loud it seemed to shake the walls. “That come from Hardin’s Tower, m’lord,” Horse stated. He might have continued, but a second scream cut him off.

Jon broke into a run. His first thought was Val, but that scream was no woman. It had stopped by the time they reached Hardin’s Tower, but the giant Wun Wun was still roaring. He dangled a bloody corpse by one leg, the same way Arya used to dangle her doll when she was small. _Arya never tore her dolls to pieces, though._ Jon tried to reason with Wun Wun, but the giant was not listening. He had cuts and bruises on his belly and arm, and he hit the corpse against a wall until it didn’t resemble anything close to human.

Men poured in behind Jon and he had to hold them back from the bloody scene. They were drawing swords, and Jon shouted and yelled for them to stop. _Can’t they see he’s scared?_ He needed a way to put an end to this, before someone was hurt, but his mind was so full he couldn’t come up with a single, useful thought. He saw the glint of steel, turned toward it. _“No blades!”_ he screamed. “Wick, put that knife…”

The slashing of steel against his skin turned his word to a grunt. He turned away so it was only a scratch, but blood still welled between his fingers when he pressed against it. The only word he could choke out was, _“Why?”_

“For the Watch.” Wick went for him again. This time, Jon caught his wrist and bent it backwards until he dropped his blade. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his hands were stiff and cold, and he couldn’t seem to wrestle it from its scabbard. Men started screaming, Wun Wun was roaring, and the whole world swam before Jon’s eyes like a messy dream.

When Bowen Marsh approached, tears in his eyes, Jon briefly thought he might help. But the tears, they told him something else, and when the knife plunged into his belly, he was less surprised than he ought to have been.

His knees hit the cold, hard ground and he wrenched the dagger free, not caring that it would make his wound worse. He was dead, no matter what he did. He thought he heard Mormont’s raven in the distance, screeching _“Dead, dead, dead, dead,”_ but he couldn’t be sure. _Ghost_ , he whispered. Pain washed over him. _Stick them with the pointy end_. When the third blade took him, he fell into the snow, his face turning ice cold. He couldn’t feel it anymore, he couldn’t feel anything. 

He saw a fourth knife drop before his eyes, turning the ice blood red, as the light finally left him.


	2. The Return Part 1

**Jon Snow**

**In her hand, Needle seems to whisper to her.** **_Stick them with the pointy end,_ ** **it said, and,** **_don’t tell Sansa!_ **

**Pain washed over him.** **_Stick them with the pointy end… He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…_ **

Jon awoke with a start, gasping for breath as his eyes adjusted to a seemingly blinding light. It took a while before the light dimmed and he could discern the wood panelled room around him, hazily lit by a few, tiny candles. For a moment, all he could remember was darkness; like a new-born, he could feel no ties to this world or any other. No hope, no goals… no family. For the first time in months, he was like a true brother of the Night’s Watch.

Jon sat up slowly, agonisingly. Every bone in his body seemed to screech and crack, refusing to bend the way he wanted them to. He reached up with a pale hand, paler than he remembered… at least he was starting to remember things. Jon tentatively placed it on his bare chest, feeling for a heartbeat, just to discern if he was alive or dead. Instead, he found a gaping hole where his heart should be, and his hand came away bloody. Looking down, he saw an open wound, too wide to have been stitched or healed, too deep to be harmless. Yet, it was not bleeding much, and his heartbeat once again began to pound in his ears.

Jon’s breathing was ragged, savage, wild. A wolf howled just outside the door. _Ghost._ Jon bolted up from the table they had laid him on and immediately his knees buckled and gave way beneath him, bringing his body crashing to the ground. Ghost began to bark at the door, but Jon stopped listening. To move was agony, so he didn’t. He stayed kneeling, as if praying before the stern face of a Weirwood tree, the ones that look a little like Edd’s, and he started to remember.

_Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me._

Jon flexed his fingers, the same ones that closed around Ramsay Bolton’s letter. _Would that they could crush his throat as easily._ He thought of Arya… Arya. _Little sister._ Even more than before, the thought of her in a wedding gown, or that bastard’s bed sickened him. Something behind his eyes darkened, and his mouth fixed itself into a grim line. _Stick them with the pointy end._ A tear came to his eye as he thought of her, of mussing her hair and just being near her. _He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…_

Except, Jon felt it now. He remembered who did it, the men who tried to stop him from rescuing _his_ sister. The men of the Night’s Watch had no sisters, only brothers; but now, Jon felt the opposite. No brother of his would want to keep him from her, and those that tried will pay the price.

The rotted wood of the door was slowly pushed open, and Jon vaguely realised that Ghost had been barking all this time. In an instant, an excited mass of white fur pounded on him, and Jon held him so tightly that, if he didn’t feel so weak, he’d be worried about breaking his neck. A glint of ruby caught his eyes, and the bastard looked up to see Lady Melisandre standing there, aloof as ever. He thought he saw the hint of a smile curl at her red lips, but he could have imagined it.

“Welcome back, Lord Snow. The Lord of Light has delivered you from the darkness, so that you may deliver us all.”

Jon shakily rose to his full height. His leather breeches felt tight and did not make movement any easier. Ghost faced the Red Woman with him, his loyalties firmly back with the Bastard of Winterfell. When he tried to speak, his voice was hoarse; only one word crept up from his throat.

“Why?”

Melisandre arched her eyebrow, curiosity etched on her face as she waits for him to elaborate. “Why would you bring me back? You should have let me die and burned me with the rest!” he slammed his hand down on the table where he was laid to rest, anger bubbling inside him. Melisandre did smile then, condescendingly, like she was educating a small child on the ways of the world.

She left her post by the door, seeming to float as she approached him. “The Lord of Light brought you back for a purpose, Jon Snow, and I cannot tell you what that is.”

“You seem to enjoy trying.” The words had left his mouth before he had time to think. She smirked at him, then took an undershirt draped across a chair and threw it to him.

“You have work to do, Lord Snow. I believe you are The Prince That Was Promised. You will save us all.” Jon didn’t care about ‘all.’ It might be selfish, but he only cared about _her_ . But what did this Red Priestess know? What did she care about him and his heart? Already she had made Stannis Baratheon believe _he_ was this ‘Prince,’ but Jon was not so easily fooled. _What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? What do you know of me?_

“How long?” Melisandre understood him.

“A few weeks, my lord. Thank the Lord you had that wolf of yours to retreat into.”

The next question was the most important, and the most difficult to utter. “What of my sister?” He shrugged the thin shirt over his shoulders, wincing at the pain in his chest and arms.

Melisandre smiled in that way he detested. Like she knew something he didn’t, and she would torment you with that knowledge until it had driven you half-mad.

“You mean the sister you do not have?” she asked. Jon’s glare would have terrified any man, but the Red Woman seemed unfazed. He hated her a little for that. “She has been taken care of, Lord Commander.”

“What does that mean?” His eyes had expanded to the size of dinner plates, and he prayed she did not mean what he supposed. He prayed she had not somehow come and gone. He prayed he not missed her completely.

“Why, she arrived at Castle Black almost two weeks past,” Melisandre answered, as flat as if Arya were just another whore from Mole’s Town one of his brothers had used and discarded. “Your Black Brothers sent her to Eastwatch-by-the-sea, and on to Braavos, as you once suggested.” Jon’s breath was coming out in ragged gasps, and he gripped the table so his knuckles turned white. He might have killed the priestess then and there, if he weren’t so weak and broken.

Jon said nothing, he wasn’t sure he could. His throat was so closed up, perhaps the only thing he could manage was a series of choking sobs. _Arya, gone,_ he thought. He closed his eyes as the thoughts ran through his mind in a flurry of confusion and pain. _At least she’s safe._ He wondered how she managed to escape, but that was a question for another day.

For now, he had Black Brothers to punish, and a Bolton bastard to kill. Jon shrugged the shirt over his head and looked up. 

_I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back…_


	3. The Lone Wolf

**Cat of the Canals**

**“Jon will want me, even if no-one else does.”**

Cat examined herself in the waters of the Purple Harbour. Tears streaked her tanned skin, her sheer robe was scuffed and torn in places, but her hair was perfectly neat. That would have made her mother proud.

She’d woken up that night with a start. She hadn’t dreamt the wolf dreams; in fact, that night, there had been no dreams at all for her. Just darkness. A crushing, endless darkness. When she did arise, something felt very wrong, like a part of her body had been ripped out without her knowledge, and now she was left with the hole it created. Cat felt broken, empty, alone.

The Black Pearl, Cat’s new mentor, was very particular about how all her girls must look, so she spent the day sewing and repairing her gown as best she could. She was a decent seamstress, it turned out. When she was finished, Bellegere Otherys smiled sweetly at her. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled that way at Cat. The only one she could remember was Jon Snow, someone Cat had never met before, but Arya had.

 _Jon Snow_ . That’s why she didn’t dream that night, why she felt so empty and alone. _Something must have happened to him. But what?_ She hoped nothing bad, but when did anything good ever happen to the Starks? Cat wondered if that Black Brother whose friend she killed would still be here. Maybe he could tell her something, anything, about the bastard brother she hadn’t seen in years.

She sat there, watching Bellegere work, mesmerised by the way her glittering gown seemed to cover everything up, and yet left nothing to the imagination. She strayed deep into her own thoughts, as she was wont to do, and Jon Snow was never far from them these days. She hoped he was safe, alive, she hoped Ghost was there to keep him so.

But she could not rely on Ghost alone. She could not rely on ghosts, either.

Her days with the Black Pearl were long, her nights even longer. She watched, listened, and learned. Bellegere seemed to like Cat, and Cat felt the same; the Black Pearl was sweet and caring, but everything about her seemed… important. An air of majesty surrounded her and everything she did, making it difficult not to admire her. Some things she was taught made Cat uncomfortable, which was ridiculous considering all she done since she fled King’s Landing.

Cat was a fast learner; it had only taken one lesson for her to learn most ways of pleasing a man, though she had only practiced with other girls. Though she had not entertained any customers herself, she knew the day would come soon.

When she was allowed to sleep, the wolf dreams returned, and more vivid than ever. She woke up with the taste of blood in her mouth, and the scent of wet fur in the air. Each night, she saw the same, through Nymeria’s eyes. She ran with a great pack, hundreds of small cousins that howled at the full moon and hunted through forests and rivers. The wind ruffled her thick coat, the moon glinted off her bared teeth before they sunk into some poor animal’s throat. They came away red. Terrible, and red.

On the last night, her dream changed. She was not surrounded by smaller, weaker wolves. She was alone.

Then Ghost appeared. He was bigger than she remembered, and whiter, though she did not think it possible. His eyes were the colour of the blood dripping from her fangs, yet his were pristine. They faced each other, both being of a height, and circled for a moment, eyeing the other with caution. But they were brother and sister, they knew each other. And yet, Arya was not Arya. She was No-one. And Jon Snow… she did not know what he was now. Ghost seemed wilder than usual, more feral, growling and snapping at the air. She looked again, and realised his eyes were white, like hers ought to be. Syrio would have hit her for that – she was looking, not seeing, resting on familiarity. White eyes meant… _Jon._

Suddenly, the great white wolf leapt at her and they went sprawling through the snowy wood. Ghost bit and snarled, and for a moment she thought they were just playing as they used to. Then she saw the bright glimmer of the moon reflecting off his fangs. They plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, and suddenly her fur was matted and drenched in shiny wet ribbons. Nymeria fought her way out of the violent embrace and struggled to her paws, staring at the wolf that was once her brother. Even though he seemed to have no eyes at all, she could tell from his gaze that Ghost did not know her. Her breath came out ragged and wild, and she ran from him in terror.

Cat awoke with a start. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and she could not tell if it was early or late. Either way, she needed to reach the Black Pearl and begin her work. She felt sick, and a pain rested deep in her stomach that made it hard to move much. She felt something hot on her thighs. She threw back the covers and saw the blood, and wondered if that was the reason she felt different. Cat took a breath and tried not to panic; she went to the basin and washed between her legs, rubbing the skin raw, then found a ragged cloth to wear between her legs. The sheets she slept bore a dark red stain, but that would have to be dealt with later. The same for her nightdress. She changed quickly in silence and sprinted down the worm-eaten steps.

She returned to the House of Black and White and told the Kindly Man her news; he allowed her the week to recover, but in that time, she would return to selling oysters and learning. Always learning. Cat smiled; she liked selling oysters, and she missed her friends, Brusco, the ladies of _The Happy Port_ , the mummers of _The Ship,_ and Roggo, who taught her how to use a finger knife. This way, she could see them again, and it would be as if she had never been gone.

* * *

**Jon Snow**

**Jon felt fifteen years old again.** **_Little sister._ **

Jon stepped into the biting cold, black furs wrapped tightly around him, Ghost always at his side. The courtyard was deserted, the snows falling thick and fast. He heard raised voices coming from the Shieldhall, and dreaded what he might find inside. His fist tightened around Longclaw.

"I'll kill you, Crow," he heard someone shout. It sounded like a woman. "Ser Patrek will have nothing on you when I'm done." 

Jon waited outside the oak doors, preparing himself for what waited inside. Shouts and the din of steel against wood permeated the air. He steeled himself, and pushed open the doors, letting the cold air sweep through the room before him.

All chatter stopped, except Bowen Marsh, who hadn't noticed his entrance. "It was for the Watch!" His ranting stopped short when he laid eyes on Jon, walking, talking and… not dead.

"Please, go on, my Lord Steward," Jon said with ease. "I suppose I can't be too angry, as long as my death was justified." He looked around him; the men who tried to kill him, and succeeded, were on the sagging dias, and the hall was filled with Wildlings and Crows. Most of them seemed frightened of him, a ghost in the flesh, all were silent. Val was grinning, seemingly unfazed by his return. 

"Y-you should be dead!" Wick Whittlestick screamed at him, pointing a shaky finger. No one spoke up to agree. Jon recalled that most of the Watch had not tried to murder him, and hoped they still did not wish it. He felt he could rely on Tormund, whose expression was calm and unreadable. 

"I know," he stated, flatly. Jon had no time for games, no time for anything. "The Gods know I almost wish I were. But, for some reason, they saw fit to keep me here. I have a feeling my work is not done. So," he turned to address the whole room, "is there any man here still faithful to his Lord Commander? Or do I have to execute the whole bloody lot of you?"

The room was still, but Jon waited. Sure enough, a head appeared from amongst the crowd. Edd faced him, as stern as ever, but with tears in his eyes. Jon supposed he returned from Long Barrow whilst he laid on that table.

"I am with you," Edd announced. A few Black Brothers stood with him, including Satin Flowers, who had clearly recently been crying. The sight of him warmed Jon's cold heart. 

Tormund got to his feet, towering over all. "Every free man and woman 'ere stands with Jon Snow." A murmur of assent rippled through the Free Folk; Val stood and said 'aye' and soon they were all on their feet with weapons at the ready. It was not long before everyone had sworn their fealty. 

Jon watched the fear creep over the faces of the traitors. Marsh tried to salvage the situation. "But he's an oath-breaker! A deserter! A traitor!"

Tormund faced him down with wild eyes. "You want to fight me, Crow? You want to run? Try it, and Val here will gut you before you make it through those doors." Val unsheathed her dagger to drive the point home. 

"And what does that make you, Marsh?" Jon asked, venom in his voice. "Oathbreaker? Kingslayer? No. I'll never be a king. But it's close enough." The four still seemed angry and defiant, but their faces blanched when he said, "Edd, fetch me a block," and unsheathed Longclaw.

Wildlings and Crows grabbed a hold of his killers and dragged them outside, with Jon and the rest of the crowd following closely. 

Once a block had been found, Janos Slynt's dried blood still decorating the surface, the men were lined up behind it, a guard restraining each one. Most were stoic and proud, but Bowen was crying again. Oddly enough, Jon didn’t seem to care.

Jon was still Lord Commander, but he didn’t feel like it. He felt… empty. One thought filled his mind, day and night, without relenting. _I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back._ Edd leaned in to ask if he really wanted to do this. Lord Commander Mormont’s raven answered for him.

“ _Dead. Dead, dead, dead.”_

Jon was silent for a moment. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, except Marsh, who seemed content to waste the last of his on pointless tears. He looked each man in the eye with a coldness he had not felt before.

Jon let the first two say their prayers before removing their heads. Wick and Bowen he saved for last. The block was already slick with blood when Wick lowered his head onto it. He said nothing, but turned to look Jon in the eye, making sure to keep his gaze until the end. This did not dissuade him, as Wick had undoubtedly hoped. 

His father was fond of saying _If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die._ Well, Jon looked into his eyes, and he deserved to die. The head came off cleanly. 

Bowen Marsh had to be forced down, and was still weeping when he died. _A pitiful man, and a pitiful death_ , Jon thought. He whispered fevered prayers to the Seven, but never got to finish. His head fell into the snow just as he began his prayer to the Mother. 

At that, Jon turned and walked back through the silent masses, until Edd and Tormund grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to stop.

“You should burn the bodies," he uttered. 

Edd looked confused. “You mean we should.”

Jon said nothing. Instead, he removed his black cloak, the arms of the Night’s Watch, and threw it at Edd’s feet. “You should.”

Edd picked up the cloak and glared at his sworn brother. “What do you want me to do with this? Wear it?”

“Wear it, burn it. Do whatever you want, I don’t care.” Jon looked down at his burned hand and could feel the fire rising in his soul. “Castle Black belongs to all of you now,” Jon said as he walked away, the thick snow crunching beneath his feet.

“My watch is ended.”


	4. The Return Part 2

**Jon Snow**

“I’m going South. The Bolton Bastard still has my...” Jon stopped himself before he said _sister,_ “home.” Edd watched disapprovingly as Jon packed his things in a hurry. He could see that something of his friend was missing, something was left behind in the Seventh Hell. Still, whatever Jon had lost the moment he died, he still cared just as much, Edd could see that. “I need to get it back. I think that’s why I’m still here.”

“You can’t leave the Wall, Jon. You swore an oath!” Jon stopped packing and looked up; Edd was briefly terrified by what he saw.

“I remember!” He stalked towards Edd, backing him against a wall. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. Need I go on?” He backed away slowly. “But I did die. The world can wait… this can’t.”

Ed sighed, praying that intelligence was not the thing his friend had lost. “In case you forgot, Roose Bolton has Winterfell. If you want to take him on, you need an army.” Jon placed his hand on the hilt of his sword; if Edd said one more word, he might’ve drawn it.

“I think I can help with that.” Edd and Jon turned to see Tormund and Satin at the door, a wicked grin on the Wildling’s face. Melisandre lurked behind them, her ruby like a third eye. “I got four thousand Free Folk at my back, and we’ve always wanted to warm our feet down south.” He clapped Jon on the back, practically knocking the wind out of him. Jon couldn’t help but smile at his friend, unpredictable as he is.

Satin wore a patient smile on his face, waiting for Tormund to finish laughing. Jon glanced at his steward, inviting him to speak up. “I heard the Boltons may have over seven-thousand men. Even with the Free Folk, you will be outnumbered, m’lord.”

“What do you suggest, Satin?” The young steward felt all eyes on him and tried not to feel nervous. He ran his fingers through his perfumed hair and continued to speak.

“You could write to the Northern Lords, maybe even some in the Riverlands. Ask for their help.” Jon was smiling at him, but the rest were unreadable. “Even if they say no, it won’t matter. The Boltons already know where you are. They could’ve killed you already, but they haven’t.” Jon nodded. He remembered Lyanna Mormont’s response to Stannis Baratheon’s request for fealty. _Bear Island knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is STARK._ Mayhaps he would start with her.

The darkness gathered behind his eyes again. Winterfell, Arya… peace was closer to him than ever, but until they were in his arms, there would be no rest.

* * *

**Cat of the Canals**

Cat wheeled her cart of clams, cockles and mussels around Ragman’s Harbour, calling out to everyone she passed. The whores from the Happy Port were her best customers, as usual, anyways smiling and ruffling Cat's hair as they consumed her goods. _Just like her brother used to do,_ Cat remembered, then quickly chastised herself for the thought. She had no brothers.

As she traipsed along the canals, shouting and selling, learning and watching, Cat noticed someone new. It was not often strangers appeared in Ragman's Harbour, nor for a woman to be there who was not a whore. Cat studied her for a moment, learning as much as she could. From the girl's clothes, she was from Westeros, pale, skinny and tall for her age.

Her hair was dark, her clothes far too warm for Braavos. She may have come from the North or the Riverlands, most likely to get away from the war. The girl looked sad, sadder than anyone she had ever seen. She was about to approach and offer her some oysters for free, when the girl turned and Cat got a look at her face, stopping her in her tracks. 

_Jeyne. Jeyne Poole_ . Arya Stark knew this girl well, though she would rather forget. She looked so different; part of her nose was gone, most likely to frostbite, and her smile had disappeared. She saw nothing of those pretty white teeth, just brown eyes and that looked to be constantly weeping. But it was her. Her sister's best friend. They used to call her 'horseface' and _neigh_ whenever she came near. Arya thought she would still be in King's Landing. _What was Jeyne Poole doing in Braavos?_ she wondered. 

Cat approached her, grinning sweetly as she spoke, "Clams for the lady?" Jeyne fixed her with a blank stare. She supposed it would be unreasonable to expect Jeyne to recognize her; she was wearing a completely new face after all. Cat waited in silence for her answer. Finally, she shook herself out of her trance and answered. 

"No, thank you. I'm afraid I can't pay." Jeyne flashed her a commiserating smile, and began to turn away. Cat wouldn't let her. 

"Forgive me, lady, but you seem troubled." Cat sat down next to her on the stone steps, her cart shielding them from the harshest of the late morning sun. "Would you like to talk? I've been told I'm a very good listener." Jeyne perked up a little, and Cat knew she had her. Girls like Jeyne liked to talk, so learning things from her would be a lot easier than having to watch from a distance. She extended her hand, "I'm Cat."

Jeyne accepted her offer. "I'm Arya," she said, "Arya Stark." Arya's heart went to her throat, her mouth dropped open. Her mother would not have liked that, so she promptly closed it. Jeyne hadn't noticed; she was eyeing the clams hungrily, practically drooling over them.

"Please," Cat answered her unspoken question, "no charge for such a high-born lady as yourself. Here." She produced a finger knife from her sleeve to help Jeyne pry them open. For a while, she watched Jeyne, and thought what a stupid girl she was. _I know not to reveal my name to just anyone_ . If Cat were someone else, saying that would get her killed. _But why my name? The girl she hated so?_ "So, what's Arya Stark doing in Braavos?"

Apparently those clams were enough to fully loosen her tongue, and Jeyne began her long-winded and detailed ramble. "I was married to Ramsay Bolton when he became Lord of Winterfell…" _Bolton_. Traitorous cads. So that's what those guards had meant as they were gossiping like fish-wives. She was right not to trust Roose Bolton at Harrenhal. Turncloaks did not sit well with Cat, they never had; if she ever got the chance, she'd stick a sword through Roose Bolton's eye. "... and we went to The Wall, but they told me my brother was dead." Cat was not listening, but she heard that. 

Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. _Jon._ It couldn't be. He had to be alive, he had to. He was the only one left to her. Jeyne was crying now. She might have been convinced, but Cat was good at spotting lies.

Cat heard nothing after that. Jon filled her thoughts. He used to muss her hair and call her 'little sister', and she could always make him smile. How could he be dead? How could the Gods be so cruel? Without thinking, Cat's hand closed around Jeyne's arm, enough to make Jeyne drop the clam she was attempting to open. 

"Who killed him? Who!" Cat asked and asked, but all Jeyne could do is complain that Cat was hurting her. "Tell me, or I will make you hurt a lot more."

"His brothers in the Night's Watch," Jeyne stuttered. Her eyes were wide and brown and scared. "They said they killed him for trying to rescue me." Cat released her grip, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. In a daze, she wrenched the finger knife from Jeyne's dainty fingers and ran from there, abandoning her cart by the water. She vaguely registered that Jeyne was shouting, but Cat did not care.

A large Braavosi man dressed in coloured silks using a staff to walk bumped into her as she ran, knocking her to the ground. He began cursing in Braavosi as Arya leapt to her feet, but when he tried to strike her with his wooden staff, she grabbed it and twisted. He let go, and she knocked him down with his own weapon. The large man at her feet looked just a boy then, like Lommy, and she sprinted away, staff in hand.

She remembered Dareon singing about some stupid lady who threw herself off some stupid tower because her stupid prince was dead. One thought consumed her mind now, the same one she had then. 

_The lady should go kill the ones who killed her prince. And she will._


	5. Home

**Alayne Stone**

Alayne Stone had Harry the Heir in her grasp. All she needed now was for him to propose, and the Vale of Arryn would be as good as hers. Of late, she had already begun walking around The Eyrie as if she were Lady here, and SweetRobin relied on her so much she might as well be. Her father was proud of her, Alayne could tell. And she was finally happy.

Alayne walked the halls, passing dozens of servants and cooks as they prepared for a banquet that evening. Lord Robert was celebrating his newly-formed Brotherhood of Winged Knights, of which Harry Hardyng was a member. She swept down the hall and across a covered bridge to the Lord Protector’s apartments.

When she gently pushed on the door and stepped inside, she found her father, Petyr Baelish, standing by the window, his gaze fixed on the parchment in his hand. “My lord father?” she whispered, drawing Petyr’s attention. When he saw her, he smiled, one of those ones that did not reach his eyes.

“Come in, child, and close the door,” he said, immediately returning to study the paper further. She did as he said and approached, then waited patiently for him to look at her again. When he did, he took her wrist, and pulled her to the window seat and sat beside her. “How go the preparations?”

“Well,” she answered, “we will be feasting better than the Queen very soon.” He chuckled, then fell silent, but Alayne’s curiosity forced her to ask, “Father, what are you reading?”

Petyr sighed, but knew she would find out eventually. “Things are moving faster than I expected.” Alayne furrowed her brow. Petyr brushed her cheek fondly. “It seems your brother thinks to get involved with the Realm’s business.” He handed her the letter, and she read. 

Petyr spoke true. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, summoned all leal lords to Bear Island, to march on Winterfell and take it back from the Boltons. Alayne couldn’t remember which Mormont was lord there now, but clearly he had already sworn. The letter was addressed to Robert Arryn, but thankfully Lord Baelish had gotten ahold of it. She feared how Robin would react if he saw it.

“I don’t understand,” she said, and truthfully she was a little confused. “Surely, this is a good thing.”

“In a way, except that you are not there,” he stated, taking her delicate hands in his. Alayne stared at him through cold, blue eyes. “Do you not want to be Lady of Winterfell?” Alayne didn’t know that she did, only that she wanted to be powerful. She nodded, and Petyr grinned at her. “But what will happen if you are not there to take it back? Will all these proud lords make you their lady if you did not lift a finger to free them?”

Alayne knew they would not, which sounded wrong to her. “They don’t have a choice. I am the last of the Starks.” 

“That is true,” Petyr conceded, “but these Northern Lords are proud. They chose your brother, and they will choose the next. You had better be there when they do, or the name _Sansa Stark_ won’t even pass their lips.” She knew he was right; he always was.

“What must I do?” was all she said. Petyr stood and began to pace, as he was wont to do when concocting a plan, stopping every now and then to fix her with a piercing gaze.

“We must sail for Bear Island. Immediately. We can ride for Gulltown and take a ship past the Bay of Seals. Then ride to the Bay of Ice and sail from there. I have coin enough for it all.” Alayne watched him, wide-eyed; he had always been so clever, and she loved hearing him come up with it all.

“Will we arrive in time?” she asked timidly.

“We must pray that we do,” Petyr muttered. “Jon Snow may take his time returning from Castle Black, despite his urgency, and the Northern Lords are divided. They will not be quick to agree on a strategy.” He stopped at last and looked at her. “We will have to do something about your hair on the way.”

That’s when Alayne remembered Harry the Heir, and she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She pushed them down and said, “What about Harry? If I go now, he might never propose!” Petyr gave her a pitying look and sat beside her. He took her hands in his.

“Sweet child.” Alayne felt he was patronising her. She hated that. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” He stroked her cheek, and that eased her fears. “We will tell him I am going on a diplomatic venture, and I could not part with you for so long. You, being the devoted daughter, felt you must accompany me, but that you will be counting the hours until you see him again. Ask him to write to you, every day.”

“He will,” Alayne said, “I know he will.”

“The Vale and her Lord will not want to involve themselves in Northern affairs,” Petyr continued, “so we have only ourselves to offer. But, if you can show these Northerners your wit, your mind, they will look to no-one else. Certainly not the bastard. And, when they choose you, you can offer them an alliance with one of the great houses of Westeros, before they even place a crown on you pretty little head.”

They smiled at each other with smug satisfaction.

* * *

**Cat of the Canals**

Cat padded down the steps, counting as she went, trying to remember where she had hidden it. _9… 10...._ The stone rocked beneath her feet, and she grinned behind the face. She crouched down and feverishly scratched at the crumbling mortar with her fingers, persisting until she felt it shift. 

Cat whipped out the finger knife, and used that to finally dislodge the stone, lodging it deep within the mortar and dragging back and forth. She tossed it aside and got both hands in and pulled. The crack opened before her.

She reached a soft, perfumed hand inside and felt around. All she found was emptiness. The fear built up inside her, and Cat frantically searched and searched. _Perhaps it got lodged further down_ , she reasoned, _or maybe I have the wrong stone_. But she knew she had the right stone. She was certain.

Cat stood and brushed the dust from her clothes and knees. Taking a deep breath, she approached those great doors of black and white, trying to hide her fear. Each step was agonisingly slow, but she knew she must not run. She must not let them know.

Once inside, some voice in her head told her where she must go. She passed through silently, her head bowed. She reached the steps to the cellar and steeled herself for what awaited her. That voice in her head told her to come here. If questioned, she was merely returning the face to the wall.

This place was filled with a crushing darkness, and her small taper did little to stave off the blackness. But she had once been Blind Beth. She knew these halls better than anyone, even better than the rats who scurried through here. When she finally reached the third level, which they called the Holy Sanctum, fires dotted throughout the room opened up the cavernous vaults before her eyes.

Faces lined the walls. Empty sockets were eyes once were stared down at her from their lofty positions, judging, always judging. She eyed each one warily. They used to scare her, back when she was stupid Arya Stark, but she wasn’t scared anymore. She wasn’t scared of anything.

“A girl should not be here.” Cat turned to find the Kindly Man standing there, Needle in his hand. She fought to urge to tear it from his grip. The voice inside her screamed _That’s my Needle! Mine! Give it back!_ But she remained stoic and silent. “A girl searches for things that belonged to Arya Stark.”

Cat said nothing. If she spoke, she would have to lie, and he would know it. No matter how good she got, he always knew. The Kindly Man examined the blade curiously, as if he had never seen its kind before. “And here I thought a girl was no-one.”

Cat glared at him. “A girl _is_ no-one.” The Kindly Man hit her with the flat of her own blade when she said that. She winced, but faced him defiantly. She would get that blade back, or die trying. 

“Then why does she want Arya Stark’s blade? It is just a sword, after all.” 

_But it wasn’t_ , she thought, though she dare not say that out loud.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and father, even Sansa. Most of them were dead now, but she never stopped loving them. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with it’s red leaves and blood-streaked face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room.

Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. _He used to muss my hair and call me “little sister,”_ she remembered, and just like before there were tears in her eyes. He had been the only one left to her, and she had tried so hard to reach him. _Now he was dead,_ she thought bitterly, _and not even the deaths of those who killed him could fill the hole he left behind_.

But she had to try.

The Kindly Man was staring at her, laughter in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, no humour in his voice.

“No-one,” she answered. For that, the flat of her own blade made her thighs sting. The Kindly Man was laughing at her, she could tell. He asked again, and she tried her best to be faceless. But tricking a priest of the Many-Faced God was more difficult than it seemed. She had learned that the hard way. “A girl is no-one.”

That earned her another blow, with her very own blade, that forced her to her knees. “Remove the face.” Cat did as he said, and at last she looked like Arya Stark again. “I will ask once more, and remember, you cannot tell a lie.” He knelt down to look her in the eyes. _Grey eyes._ “Who are you?”

Arya closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. Everything she had ever done, seen, felt, rose up inside her at once. Everything that led her here: falling in love with Nymeria, being forced to send her away; training with Syrio, and watching him fall; fleeing King’s Landing with Gendry and Yoren and Hot Pie and Lommy and every single one of them leaving her, one way or another; Jon dousing himself in flour and becoming the Ghost of Winterfell, and becoming the Ghost in Harrenhal herself, striking names off her list; watching her father’s head roll away, and seeing Robb with Grey Wind’s snout on his shoulders, dragging her mother from the waters of the Trident; saying goodbye to her favourite sibling, and saying goodbye again, but only in her prayers.

When she opened her fierce, grey eyes, the Kindly Man was staring down at her. In that moment, she knew what answer she must give. She was still on her knees, but Arya felt taller than ever. 

“A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she said, loud enough for every God to hear. “And I’m going home.”

The Kindly Man smiled, and presented her the hilt of Needle. With shaky fingers, she took it, and rose to her full height. “Arya Stark is going home,” he repeated, walking past her towards the stairs. He turned back when she did not follow. “A girl should follow. Unless a girl does not want to go home?” He started up the steps, and Arya rushed to follow.

When the sun hit her face, _her_ _face_ , she felt free for the first time since she left Winterfell. Free, and angry. He led her through the streets, over bridges and through crowds. She didn’t know where they were going, and she didn’t care. Her thoughts drifted to Jon, and her wolf dreams. She thought of Ghost, and that dream she had of him. She must have imagined those white eyes, _but they had seemed so real_. 

When she returned from her thoughts, she found a fat man grinning down at her. She recognised him - he sat with the Westerosi for Mercy’s performance at The Gate. “Welcome, Lady Stark. The Iron Bank is glad to receive you.” She did not respond, but the man bowed as best he could. "I am sure you are anxious to return home."

It had been so long since she had heard the name Stark, she almost forgot he was speaking to her. She must have looked so stupid, with her mouth hanging open and vacant eyes. Arya remembered her mother, and her courtesies, and curtsied back. She was wobbly and awkward, but it seemed to please him.

"Thank you, my lord…" she trailed off, not knowing his name. 

"Reyaan," he added helpfully. He seemed like a nice man, but she had met plenty of nice men in her time. Often, they turned out to be not so nice. It was made worse by the fact that this one knew her name. 

"When do we sail?" She had no time to dance around her words, as so many of Reyaan's ilk were wont to do. She had Black Brothers to kill. 

"Whenever you are prepared, my lady. You will have a personal guard, and our fastest ship is ready to take you to King Stannis." She didn't want to go to Stannis, she wanted Jon. She wanted to see his body before they burnt it, though she knew that would not be possible. At least it was Westeros, she conceded. "We have also prepared some clothes for you. We hope they fit."

“Thank you, ser. But, I will not need a personal guard,” she responded. Arya took some small pleasure in the appalled look on his face. “I made it through the Riverlands once without one, I’m sure I can manage again. Besides, how long before a young girl with an armed escort becomes the biggest target south of the Wall?” Bessaro Reyaan looked abashed, but, after a furtive glance at the Kindly Man, nodded all the same.

The Kindly Man placed a hand on Arya Stark’s shoulder. She looked up at him, his kind eyes and wrinkled skin, and watched as he produced a coin from his robes. Iron, the same one Jaqen H’ghar once gave her. “Go now, wolf girl. And remember who kept you safe.” She smiled and took the coin. “Valar Morghulis,” they said at the same time, and then he was gone. Arya was tired of people leaving her.

“Come now, my lady,” Reyaan said, holding out a large hand for her, “it is time we got you _home_.”


	6. The Inn at the Crossroads

**Arya Stark**

Arya guessed they had been sailing for three days, maybe four, which meant Westeros was only hours away. _Home_. But was it? She hadn’t been there in so long, and she left it burned, broken and weeping the blood of the smallfolk. How could she call a place like that her home, where five Kings ruled, though some had been shortened by a head since then, and the Mountain That Rides cut down everyone he didn’t rape first.

They were docking in Saltpans, the same port she had used to leave this continent. Where she had left everything behind. She had tried to reach Jon, but the captain said there was nothing up north but ice and snow and death, but for her there was life. There was her brother. Now, all that remained to her was justice.

On deck, with the waves making it sway somewhat, Arya occupied herself with her needlework. A few Braavosi guards were accompanying her and envoys from the Iron Bank, all bound for different destinations, and they were more than happy to spar with a highborn lady. Unfortunately, she kept winning; she should’ve guessed that, no matter how much she insisted, they would never come close to hurting a highborn.

Arya once again wished she were not a lady, but then she would not be on her way home now. So, perhaps it was not so bad as she once thought.

When she was not practising, she decided to plan her journey north. A ship would be faster, and if she could find one to take her to White Harbour or Eastwatch, the Gods would be smiling on her. They never were however, and with the war presumably still raging in the Riverlands, she may need to find her way over land. She dreaded that most, but she had done it once, and she would do it again.

That night, she became a wolf again. She ran through the woods, away from something, or to it, she could not say. The ground was wet beneath her paws, and she kicked up mud as she sprinted, the trees becoming a blur of yellow and green and brown. Her small, grey cousins were beside her, always. A cool autumn breeze ruffled her dappled fur, and like always, the taste of blood was in her mouth.

When she woke, the captain told her they had docked. She dressed in silence, donning leather breeches, belt and a tunic, with a grey surcoat embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark in silver thread. It was not wise to wander the Riverlands with her house emblazoned on her chest, but everything the Braavosi had offered her bore the symbol, so she would just have to hide it as best she could. It was quite beautiful, and meant for a man, which she was grateful for, but much too long; she had tried to hem it during the journey, but like always, her stitches were crooked and uneven, and she unpicked them immediately. A tattered, black cloak was a gift from the House of Black and White; it would keep her warm, and hide her name.

Stepping onto solid ground, she thanked the captain for his service and parted ways. Her coin purse was secured to her belt, Needle at her hip, and a sack of clothes and provisions slung over her shoulder. The guards walked her into the ruins of Saltpans, and they would stay with her until they found her a mount. She feared there were none to be had here. This town was a blackened ruin, with barely a living thing in sight.

It felt good to have solid ground beneath her feet again, though somehow it still felt wrong. Arya Stark had left the Riverlands. This girl wasn’t sure who was returning.

She looked around her; once she might have wept, but all the tears were gone from her. She had given them all for her father, her young brothers, her king and her mother, and now for Jon. The Many-Faced God had taken them from her, the Gods of the trees were watered by her sobs. She was dry and empty and alone.

Amongst the charred remains of the port town, a young boy was begging for coin and food. He was gap-toothed and sullen, but he grinned when he saw Arya and the bravos around her, holding up a splintered wooden bowl. Arya smiled back, and tossed a gold dragon into the bowl. The boy got so excited he almost laughed.

“Boy,” she said, “I am looking for a horse to take me as far as Riverrun. Do you know where I might find such a one?” The boy nodded shyly, so she held out a silver stag before his eyes, and he tugged on her sleeve and beckoned her to follow. She looked to her guards and encouraged them to do the same, and soon they were off, following an urchin along the shore, until he dragged them to a blackened stable, the upthrusting Quiet Isle in the distance to the southeast.

There were no horses in sight, but she thanked the boy anyway and gave him the stag. That’s when she heard voices from behind, and her hand went to grasp Needle on instinct. Her braavosi protectors saw her do so, and followed suit. The boy watched them quizzically, saying “Don’t be so scared, m’lady. Is just the gravedigger.” 

Arya didn’t know any gravedigger, though if this boy was not afraid, the man was probably harmless. When another voice joined the first, Arya handled her sword once more, though she thought she knew them from somewhere.

“I don’t care if some fucking lady knight’s in danger! I’m done with fish, and lions and wolves. Fuck the king! Fuck all the kings and all the queens and all their bullshit justice.” He spat, and as they passed through the mist, she saw men she hoped never to set eyes on again. 

The cowl around the ‘gravedigger’s’ face covered most of his scars, but it was definitely Sandor Clegane. Next to him, the thin, grey priest who used to be fat and bald, Thoros of Myr, walked beside him, drinking heavily from a skein of wine. Beside Sandor, looking up at him with pleading eyes, about to beg him until their eyes landed on her, was a boy she had only known for a short time. Now, he was a man.

Sandor saw her and rolled his eyes, whilst Thoros of Myr almost burst out laughing and Ned Dayne smiled sheepishly. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Arya cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. The boy kissed the coin he gave her and sprinted off, laughing. “Haven’t you and I had enough of each other?” the Hound continued.

“Clearly not,” she answered. If she found humour in this, she would not show it. The man she had left to die was here, digging graves for all but himself. "What were you gentlemen discussing? Please, don't let me interrupt."

"Arya Stark," Thoros announced, clumsily getting to one knee and bowing his head with an amused flourish. "Welcome to Saltpans. When did m'lady acquire her own personal guard?"

Arya did not appreciate mocking, especially not from a drunk who still had the balls to call himself a priest. "They're not my guards. They are bravos here on their own missions." She turned to them, all dressed in bright, striped clothing, carrying blades much like her own. "As you can see, sers, I am among friends. You may return to your own business." They bowed, muttering versions of 'If it please my lady' in various tongues before leaving her. 

Once they were alone, she turned to the disheveled outlaws before her. "I'm looking to buy a horse. One that can get me as far as Riverrun. Is there one here abouts? Or must I trouble some poor farmer for his only living plough-horse?" The Hound grumbled and Ned tittered nervously.

"Well, you can't have Stranger. He's stuck on that isle, along with Craven, though she won't do you much good anymore." Sandor disappeared south into the mist, muttering all the while, leaving Arya to marvel at how Stranger and Craven had lasted all this time. _People must think the same of me_ , she mused.

Ned Dayne was mute, still shy and honourable as she remembered. At least the war had not altered some. She turned to Thoros, who choked a little on his wine when she spoke his name. "Red Priest, what were you and the Hound speaking of just now?" Arya watched the red liquid trickle down his grey beard. 

"The Riverlands are a lawless place, my lady. Even more so than when you were here last," he explained, taking gulps of wine between each sentence. "Lannisters, Boltons and Freys are being hung from every tree and left for the crows, even green boys who have never held a sword. It's an ill thing, and not even the Brotherhood still stands to fight it. Not as it once was. Hell, I left because we became the ones doing all the killing."

"I cannot imagine the Lightning Lord would commit such acts," she said.

"The Lightning Lord is dead, my lady," Thoros answered. It clearly pained him to say the words. Arya tried to be sad, but she had not known him long, and he had let the Hound go free.

At that moment, the dog returned, leading a midnight courser behind him, already saddled. Aside from a few scars and a burn mark on its flank, the creature was beautiful, with a flowing black mane and and dark, shining eyes. She took the reins gladly; he was not as big as Stranger, but Arya was not as big as Sandor.

She turned to burned man with a frown. “Twenty dragons,” she said. Sandor Clegane snorted, then nodded and accepted her coin. Clearly, he felt like he was ripping her off, but Arya didn’t care. She needed to go North, and this was the only way.

“Alright, little wolf.” Arya grimaced, not from the name, but because it came from _him_. “I’m coming with you.” She raised her eyebrows quizzically, but Sandor didn’t seem to be joking.

“Why would you want to come with me?”

“I imagine we all do,” he answered. Arya glanced at Thoros and Ned, her gaze demanding an explanation. They stayed silent. Sandor spoke to the Red Priest directly. “She’ll want to see this one. She might be the only one who can put an end to it.” A cloud of realisation and pain descended on Thoros’ features, and Arya knew there was more they weren’t letting on.

“What are you talking about?” she asked suspiciously. A Red Priest and a dog were never the most trustworthy of people, so she looked to Ned Dayne, but his cheeks flushed and he hid his gaze. Thoros planted a callused hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll take you north, my lady,” he promised, “but we must take you somewhere else first. It is on your journey, I promise.” She narrowed her eyes, so Thoros smiled graciously down at her. “The person we’re going to, you’ll want to see them, princess. I know you will.”

With no other choice, Arya waited with her horse as Sandor, Ned and Thoros retrieved their own mounts. She mused on why he would call her ‘princess’ as she swung herself into the saddle and ran her fingers through his mane. She thought for a moment on what to call him, and finally settled on ‘Crow’.

And suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

* * *

They had been riding for four days, but it was easy going thus far. These lands were more peaceful than she remembered, or perhaps there was no-one left alive to terrorise. One night it had rained heavily and long, and Arya suddenly missed Braavos deeply. It had been foggy and wet sometimes, but at least she had a roof over her head.

They had been following the Kingsroad, but had never ridden on it. The trees were their mask. Most days she rode alone, in the middle of the company, but today she fell back to speak with Ned.

“It’s been a long time, Ned. How have you fared?” she asked. Ned answered amiably, never revealing too much. He and Thoros shared a glance, which Arya noted, but he still seemed the kind boy she had known.

“Mostly, Arya, I long for home,” he concluded with a sad smile. She realised that the war had touched him. It had touched everyone, no-one got out unscathed, and she had been naive to think he could. She wondered what Starfall looked like; the stories were marvelous, but maybe one day she could see it for herself.

“And I. I long for Winterfell, but I fear I will never see it’s grey walls again,” she said, sadly. Ned reached over and placed a hand on hers. Arya almost jumped at the touch, but quickly decided she liked it.

“Sometimes home isn’t just four walls,” he said sweetly. “Sometimes it has two eyes and a heartbeat.” With that, he withdrew his hand. _Empty eyes_ , she thought, _and no heartbeat. Not anymore._

They dismounted at an inn, and Arya realised where they were. The Inn at the Crossroads, where she had killed Polliver and stabbed the Tickler so many times the Hound had to pull her off him. She couldn’t think why they had stopped here. _What was so important about this inn?_ Then she saw a flash of yellow and a cry went up among the outlaws.

As they dismounted, Lem Lemoncloak embraced his priestly friend and ruffled Ned's hair, though he was not quite short enough anymore. He stiffened at the sight of Sandor, though as she dismounted she struggled to hear what they were saying, and Sandor disappeared into the inn before she approached. Lem smiled when he saw her.

"Hullo, little lady," he said, grinning. "I'm surprised you're still alive."

"I could say the same about you," she shot back, which made him chuckle. As he did, half a dozen small children went running past her feet, giggling, as an older girl though younger than Arya, chased after them. “Willow! Who’s there?” a man’s voice called out, though the girl she presumed was Willow had disappeared with her ragged band of orphans. The owner of the voice stepped out of the inn, hammer in hand to ward off intruders. When he saw them, his arm went limp.

"Hello, 'Arry," he proffered sheepishly. _Good_ , she thought, _he should be sheepish. He left me, just like everyone else_. Before he could say anything else, she walked over and punched him on the arm. "Ow!" he yelled. "That hurt!"

"Good," Arya stated. "We won't trouble you for long, _ser,_ just one night and a decent meal and we'll be on our way." Gendry looked to Thoros of Myr, a hint of fear in his blue eyes.

"You going to see her?" he asked. Thoros nodded gravely. The scowl Gendry wore so well returned quickly, and he glared at Arya, shaking his head as if she were some child who needed a scolding. She hated that look, though she could never bring herself to hate the one who wore it. Not really.

"Any idea where she might be?" Thoros questioned.

"Disappeared into the Neck, last I heard, hiding from the Freys." This time it was Lem who answered. "Why you looking for her?"

"This one needs to see her," Sandor replied, gesturing to Arya. He was leaning against a wall with a chicken leg in his hand, the grease running down his arm as he tore into it.

"Then I'm coming with you," Lem said, gesturing for them all to follow him inside. Arya and Gendry lingered on the threshold, their eyes locked on one another.

"Me too," he said determinedly. Arya had no time to object before he entered the inn, and she had no choice but to follow.

Within, the inn was warm from a roaring fire, and Arya sniffed the air for familiar scents of cooking meat and fragrant perfume, which let her know of the whores' presence before seeing them. She noticed the blood-stained floor, and images of the Tickler's lifeless body oozing blood as Sandor dragged her away flashed before her eyes. She looked to the Hound, and could see that he remembered it too.

Gendry seemed to be attended at all times by a shadow, a tall, brown-haired girl, with precocious eyes, though she fawned over Gendry like a lovesick child. She eyed Arya with suspicion and prudence, and Arya could not blame her, though she did not like the way she followed Gendry around like a dog. A younger girl, supposedly named Willow, now commanded her orphan children like a queen.

Arya sat down by Thoros and Lem, opposite Gendry, and tore into a hunk of bread with her teeth. Still scowling, Gendry stood abruptly, only offering a scornful "M'lady," before walking away from the table, presumably to hammer metal into useful shapes. Once he was gone, she looked to Thoros and studied him, and every passing moment gave an insight into his intentions. Though, sadly, she could not read minds.

North was where she was going, but Arya cared little for whichever outlaw they spoke of so cryptically. Perhaps she would already be on a ship for White Harbour by now, if she hadn’t listened to these old fools. She was so stupid to follow them. _I have always done much better on my own_ , she told herself, though if she tried to think of a time she had _enjoyed_ loneliness, she would fail. 

She would rather be alone, though, than get to him too late. She had a brother to bury, and traitors to kill.


	7. Here We Stand

_**** _

**Jon Snow**

_**And** _ _**Arya... He missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was...** _

Jon’s knuckles were turning white from gripping the back of the chair, but it was better than biting his tongue. The Northern Lords, so strong and decisive in times of peace, had spent weeks squabbling like children. Dozens of maps had been drawn, and redrawn, figurines carved so they could plan their movements, weapons were still being forged.

This time, it was over who would lead the van. He looked down at Ghost lying beneath the table, looking up at him with blood-red eyes. He looked as frustrated as Jon felt.

Sigorn of House Thenn was shouting, arguing why he and his two hundred Thenns should lead the vanguard. His new wife, Alys Karstark, was watching him with laughing eyes. Maege Mormont was grinning too; Jon had come to learn how much she relished confrontation. Maege and her daughters had been the first to arrive, returning home after a long, tireless excursion in defence of his brother's crown. They were his first hope.

Robett Glover stood then, and began proclaiming why he should lead the van. He had more men, his own bannermen, and so many other reasons Jon did not care to listen to. Robett and Wylis Manderly had arrived a day ago from White Harbour, and they knelt before him when they arrived. All this kneeling made him feel uneasy, and all this squabbling was making him angry. His hand closed around Ramsay Bolton’s letter again. He kept it with him to remind him why he was fighting. _Little sister_. 

A hand tugged on his sleeve. Lyanna Mormont, sitting next to him on the dais, stared at him, eyebrow raised with that knowing look in her eyes. Maege was at his other hand, Lyra and Jory next to her, all with a look of restrained anger that marked them for she-bears. He knew what they were saying without words, and raised his hand for silence. Thankfully, the room obeyed.

“My lords,” Jon announced, “I thank you all for answering my call. Every man here has cause to hate the Boltons, the Freys, the Lannisters, the traitorous Karstarks.” At that, several lesser lords began beating their shields against the stone floor. “Why, then, have we been gathered for weeks, and still not agreed on a plan? I understand we had to wait for some of our company to arrive, but that is no excuse!” Jon knew that many here would be appalled at a bastard speaking to them thus, but he was past caring. “The Boltons have Stannis trapped, and they have my sister. _Valiant Ned’s precious little girl_ , isn’t that what you call her? And yet, you sit here squabbling over details and honours, while Arya Stark languishes in a place that was once her home.” By now, Arya would be in Braavos, but they didn’t need to know that. Everyone was silent, at last, and Jon thought he saw Wylis Manderly smiling. 

Jon let out a sigh, despairing at the men he had before him. He prayed the Old Gods would not let them fail. “Do you want your homes, your freedom? Do you want revenge? Or must I march on Winterfell alone?”

That sent a ripple of discussion through their ranks, that grew into shouts of outrage and protest. Jon feared he had lost them. It would not matter, though. If he had to, he _would_ go to Winterfell alone, and face Ramsay himself. He had already tried twice, but Tormund had stopped him both times. _I will have my bride back, or die trying._

Ironically, it was little Lyanna Mormont who stood first. She stepped down from the dais and fixed each man with a piercing glare. Her mother and sisters let her speak. “My Lords, you can sit there and quibble, and beg for honours before the fight has even begun. But know this: House Mormont remembers!” A hush fell over the room at last, and their voices were briefly replaced by the din of shield on stone. “We remember the Red Wedding! We remember my sister, Dacey Mormont, slain with the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, the King in the North!” At her words, the disorganised sound grew into a steady beat, as if they were already marching into war. Robett looked Lyanna in the eye, and Jon watched a grin creep slowly across his face.

“Do you remember your father’s words, Lord Snow?” Jon realised everyone was staring at him, but Lyanna concerned him most. She had his aunt’s name, and, from the way Eddard Stark used to speak of her, one was as fierce as the other.

“Winter is coming,” Jon answered. She turned back to the gathered Lords.

“Winter is coming,” she repeated. “We _are_ the winter. And we shall come for them. Freys, Boltons, Lannisters. None can escape the cold. Winter will come for them, with your help or without it.”

Wylis Manderly’s booming voice cut through the hall. He was almost the size of his father, Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse, and just as loud. “The North remembers!” he yelled, raising his sword in the air, “and the mummer’s farce is done. House Manderly stands with House Stark, from this day, until my last day. And we will follow you.” Soon, all had their swords raised, and one house or another was pledging themselves to House Stark, to Jon. He felt like a fool; he was not a Stark, he never would be. He was the Black Bastard of the Wall, and nothing could change that.

Robett Glover was the last to speak. “House Glover stands with House Stark, and we take our lead from you, Jon Snow.” He laid his greatsword on the stone and knelt before it. Jon approached the edge of the dais, Ghost following. He commanded them all to rise, named Robett Glover to lead the vanguard (Sigorn would soon forget), and began crafting a strategy. Tables were gathered with Jon at the head, and maps spread out across them.

They elected to meet Stannis at the crofter’s village, and march on Winterfell together. Ser Wylis seemed to know much about those lords joined with Roose Bolton, and it seemed all of them were false, and would turn once their army arrived. He claimed his father and his host was now with Stannis, 5,000 men in all, claiming the full strength of White Harbour was over 10,000 strong, and ready to attack Winterfell from the East. It was also agreed that Roose Bolton would be left for the Greatjon Umber, who lost much at the Red Wedding, as soon as he could be released. Ramsay belonged to Jon.

Just as they were making progress, a squire slipped through the gathered and whispered something in Maege’s ear. She nodded, and cast an apprehensive glance at Jon. Before he could ask, the doors to the great hall opened, and two figures stepped inside. Ghost began a low growl, warning him of enemies. All chatter and planning stopped so each man could get a look at the strangers.

One was a man, thin with sharp features, a small pointed beard on his chin, and dark hair with threads of grey running through it. The other was a girl, no older than fifteen, with bright red hair and blue eyes. As she approached, Jon gradually recognised her. _Sansa_.

A herald announced them, “Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, and Lady Sansa… Stark.” She appeared happy to see Jon, though he couldn’t think why. Swords were quickly raised, all pointing at his half-sister.

“My lords,” Petyr Baelish said, with laughing eyes, “is that really how you treat the heir to Winterfell?” They looked to Jon, and he signalled for them to lower their weapons.

“Heir to Winterfell? Hah!” Robett Glover scoffed. “As long as the Starks still live, no Lannister will take Winterfell in this lifetime.”

“I am no Lannister, my lord,” Sansa seemed incensed at the notion. She turned to Jon, “Jon, I’m here to help you take back our home. I am no Lannister, you know that.” If she had expected sympathy, for the bastard she hated so to be on her side, she was to be disappointed.

“You are a Lannister. The Imp is still living. Even if he wasn’t, you would be a Lannister widow. Lord Glover speaks truly.” Jon had never seen Sansa plead for anything, except to marry Joffrey, but her eyes were pleading with him now. He looked past her to the slight man acting as Sansa’s shadow. “Lord Baelish, how many men do you bring with you from the Vale?”

“None, my lord,” he answered, as nonchalant as if there were no lives at stake. “My step-son does not wish to embroil the Vale in another war.”

Jon almost laughed. “Funny. I don’t remember the last time the Vale did get involved.” The northerners chuckled, but Sansa was completely on-edge. “If you haven’t brought any men, then you are not here to help take back Winterfell, are you?” Petyr was clearly not used to people being so blunt.

“I have brought your sister. The last of the Starks.”

“And how useful will she be on the battlefield?” Jon glared at him, but Petyr was not one to be intimidated. “Unless she hides an army in her skirts,” Jon continued, ignoring the shocked look on Sansa’s face, “you should have left her in the Eyrie.” Every lord there was nodding his agreement, and Jon took a little pride in doing something even Littlefinger couldn’t anticipate.

“My lady,” he said, meeting Maege Mormont’’s gaze, “do you think you will be able to accomodate Lady Sansa?”

The Mormont women fixed malign glares on Sansa as their mother spoke, “I’m sure we can manage, as long as Lady Sansa doesn’t mind our worst lodgings. Our halls are quite full, as you can see.” Sansa offered her a forced smile then turned her eyes on Jon, stepping closer as she pleaded.

“Jon -” she began, but Ghost growled silently at her, snapping his teeth, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Mormont men-at-arms began ushering her from the hall, and Jon did nothing to stop them. Sansa was still scowling when she left, but Jon tried not to spare any more thoughts for her.

He looked down at the map, the Dreadfort to the East, Winterfell further South. He wanted his home, and _her_ . Always her. Now, he was so close. _So close._

* * *

He thought of what he would do once he had his hands on Ramsay Bolton, around his throat, able to break bones and watch him bleed for all he had done. When everything had been beaten out of him, Jon would take Longclaw and part the bastard's head from his shoulders. As his father had taught him, he would look the dead man in the eye, and know he was doing what was right.

He dreamt of Arya that night. She looked as she was the last time he saw her, her hair tangled as a bird’s nest and her eyes were bright with laughter and excitement. But beneath it all he now saw a deep sadness, as if she knew - they both knew - that would be the last time they saw each other. He mussed her hair and gave her a sword. _Needle_ , he’d called it, a thin blade that was perfect for his little stick of a sister.

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle,” he had said. “Who knows?” But now, she was as far away as ever, and he began to doubt his own words. The hole he felt, created by her absence, only grew each day, and the only thought that consumed his mind was vengeance. Justice. 

He stirred before the sun rose, groggy and frustrated as he remembered where he was and all he had to do now. Winterfell had been lost long ago, and here he was, a man of the Night’s Watch, acting like a lord to take it back for a family that was either dead or across the sea. Ghost was sleeping on top of the covers at the foot of his bed, but he stirred as Jon did, eager despite the early hour.

Jon stood and stumbled across the cold stones to the open window, dressed in only his smallclothes, to watch the sun rise. Ghost padded along beside him and stood on his hindquarters to stare through the window with his master. Jon breathed in the cool air as he watched the inky black sky fade to dark blue, then to ice, then to white. Snow dusted the leaves of old, gnarled oaks, tall pines and flowering thornbushes, and the streams running through the hills were frozen solid. Winter was here, and the nostalgic thought made Jon smile.

A knock on the door made Jon look up, and Satin cautiously stepped inside. He shuffled nervously, and grew quite fascinated by his own bootstraps. When he spoke, it was barely audible. “My lord, Lady Sansa has asked to speak with you,” he mumbled. Jon sighed, but he had been expecting this and knew it would be unavoidable. He gestured, and Satin left him, allowing his half-sister into the room.

Sansa looked every inch the southern lady. She always had, but now she was a woman grown, and it showed. Her pale blue gown of silk and fur-trimmed sleeves contrasted with her bright, Tully hair, which she wore loose. Jon looked at her, and saw her mother, Catelyn, who could never be a mother to him. The woman Sansa emulated so much she had never called him anything better than _half-brother_ , and no matter how much Jon tried, any feeling of affection refused to surface.

Ghost growled at her as she entered, causing the girl to jump. You would never guess that Sansa had ever owned a direwolf of her own. She stood there, silent, with her eyes downcast, and Jon remembered his state of undress. With a scowl, Jon spoke to her as he crossed the room to find some breeches and a shirt to pull on. “What brings you here so early, Sansa?” She swallowed and managed to drag her gaze to his face, and he noticed how easily she plastered on a smile.

“We had no chance to speak when I arrived,” she said, conveniently ignoring that it was he who had prevented them from speaking, “and there are urgent matters we must discuss.” Jon pulled a loose shirt over his head, and reached for something woolen to fight against the encroaching cold. “We must discuss what will happen once we take back the North.”

“Once _I_ take back the North,” he stressed, frustrated at her mere presence in his chambers. “Me, and all those men and women out there, who answered the call. But you? Why are you here? Lord Robert is not with you. He has not brought the Knights of the Vale to assist us. All we have is you, and Littlefinger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but his mind was a storm of anguish and confused emotion, and Sansa had done nothing so far to make him feel better. It was unfair, and he would never admit it, but some part of Jon resented her for not being the sister he prayed for. Sansa stared at him, shocked and bullied into silence, and Jon felt shame settle on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, as he pulled on the threadbare sleeves of his tunic, “I didn’t mean to be so harsh.” Sansa gave him a small, understanding smile. “It’s been… difficult, for a long time now, and this is our chance. I want my home back.”

“So do I,” she said, and he knew that was true. “And I understand.” Jon nodded, as he had guessed that, however she had got here, escaped King’s Landing, Jon knew it couldn't have been easy. “Perhaps I might await you downstairs? And we might eat together?” Jon considered for a moment, and nodded, and that seemed to please her. Sansa made to leave, her skirts swishing across the bare stones.

“Sansa,” he called out, making her turn back with her hand on the door, “perhaps you could ask. Your cousin, I mean. We need all the help we can get.” Sansa inclined her head, letting him know she would try, and left the room, leaving Jon more conflicted than ever. He supposed she would run straight to her _Lord Protector_ and tell him everything, but Jon was past caring. What could Littlefinger do to him anyway?

Jon considered crawling back beneath his covers and sleeping for a few more hours, but all his dreams eventually became nightmares, endless visions of an intense blackness. A great nothing that awaited him after his death. His next one. And in that darkness, eyes staring back at him, pale white and weeping blood. When they opened, they were grey, and that terrified him even more.

Ghost placed his head on Jon’s lap and gazed up at him with soft, red eyes. Somehow, he always felt better with the great white wolf beside him. As he scratched Ghost behind the ears, and watched his eyes close and his face light up with a stupid grin, Jon felt himself smiling too. It was wiped away when another knock sounded on the door, and rather unceremoniously, Lyanna Mormont entered.

“Lord Snow,” she said, dipping her head as a sign of respect. Her brown hair was loosely braided, and even at this hour, she wore leathers and wool, with a fur cloak hanging from her slim shoulders. She looked so much like Arya, Jon had to catch his breath the first time he met her. “The Lords are waiting for you below. They are eager to press on.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said softly, and Jon once again was confronted with the crushing weight of his new responsibilities. “I will be down in a moment.” She nodded, but her expression was stern. Jon tried to recall if he had ever seen her smile, and in that way, she was not like Arya at all.

"You should know," she began, clearly uncomfortable with such a prolonged interaction, "the North has not been idle since the Red Wedding. I know that is what everyone thinks, but it's not true. We have been dormant, I know, but not idle. The North Remembers. And winter is coming."

"And here we stand," he added, and Jon thought he saw a smile tug at the edges of Lyanna's lips. Still, she turned to leave.

“One thing, Lord Snow,” she added. “Ser Wylis waits without.” And without an explanation, she left, and Wylis Manderly took her place, though he was considerably larger than the ten-year-old lady. Fat, bald, with a thick walrus mustache, Wylis Manderly looked nothing like his fellow Northerners, though Jon was told he bore a striking resemblance to his father, the lord of White Harbour. 

“Ser Wylis,” Jon said courteously, and Wylis did his best to bow. Upon their first meeting, Wylis seemed quiet, and it was clear he was a formal and honest man. His years in captivity had apparently made him more fervent in his desire for revenge, so Jon could scarce imagine what he was like before. Arya would not have gotten on with him; she would have liked him, to be sure, and he might have enjoyed her company, but Arya preferred people with more… fire.

“Lord Snow,” he said, in a voice so quiet Jon could barely make it out. He did not seem timid, just a man who had learned not to waste his breath. “I was with your brother’s host in the Riverlands. He was a good man, and I can see you are too.” Jon was not sure how to take that, but compliments had always made him uncomfortable, and something about the hour and Ser Wylis’ tone suggested he was not just here to praise him.

From the folds of his cloak, Wylis discreetly produced a piece of parchment, weather-worn, but otherwise pristine. 

“There is something I must tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter takes place around the same time as the last one, considering both of Arya's journeys would take a fair amount of time, and Jon's journey to Bear Island, the other Lords' journey, and their long stay, sort of occupies the same period. Sorry not much happened this chapter, things will be picking up soon!


	8. She Is Risen

_**** _

**Arya Stark**

_...Only then did she stop to shake the water from her fur. The white thing lay facedown in the mud, her dead flesh wrinkled and pale, cold blood trickling from her throat._ ****Rise** ** **, _she thought._ **Rise** and eat and run with us.**

_The mud flew up behind her as she ran, damp fur rustling in the wind, her nose filled with the scent of blood and death. There was food to be found in these woods, she could sense it, and her pack could too, though they would never do anything without her order. She loved leading them, protecting them, saving them. It was what she was born to do._

Ned had begun to braid her hair. Every night, as they set up camp, Ned and Arya would sit by the fire as he tried new and increasingly intricate styles in her brown locks as they slowly grew out. One day soon, she hoped, her hair would reach her waist, like it used to when her father still lived and she was still young and happy. 

Arya liked the feel of Ned’s callused hands against her scalp, and she grinned any time they passed a stream or puddle and she could view her reflection. Her hair was still short and shaggy, but Ned always found a way to weave braids through and make it look nice. More than anything, she enjoyed the jealous glower Gendry wore as he watched the two. Causing him even a fraction of the discomfort he caused her gave Arya great satisfaction.

Whenever they stopped for the night, Arya found herself lost in dreams, stronger than the ones she had in Braavos. She could taste the blood in her mouth again, feel the mud squelching beneath her paws, hear every sound the forest made as she hunted. Man or beast, she did not care. It was all flesh to her, all to be consumed. She heard her small, grey cousins call out to the moon, watched them try to keep up with her, and fail. But it made no matter. 

Because, for the first time in years, she could sense her brother again. Her white brother with eyes like blood, and this time he was no figment. She could taste him on the air and see him, no matter how far away he was. Her other brothers were lost to her, but the white wolf still lived, even as his master did not. Stupidly, it gave the girl in her hope. But, for what, she could not say.

Those dreams made her days more bearable, though every thought still seemed to weigh her down even more than the last. In her heart of hearts she knew he was dead, but at least sleeping gave her a moment of relief. Each day they drew closer to the North, to home, to him, though their progress was infuriatingly slow. It felt as if her companions were waiting for something, moving cautiously to ensure they didn’t miss something, and Thoros and Gendry often led out separate scouting parties that slowed their movement even more. 

But Arya found herself nursing darker thoughts. For getting North meant passing through the Neck, and just thinking of it made her remember.

 _When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah_ _showed me a lizard-lion_ _._ That was the last time she had been through the Neck, and his face still haunted her sometimes. She spoke of it to no-one, wallowing in her own guilt-ridden memories. It made no matter. They would never understand.

Sometimes, as they rode, Arya heard voices. Earthy, ethereal, ghostly, drifting on the wind towards her from the South. _I am the Ghost in Harrenhal,_ she sang to herself, though it was the Gods of the Trees they sounded like. Her father’s gods, and his ghosts.

Arya wondered if they were going to Greywater Watch; her father’s friend, Howland Reed, was lord there. But they had been speaking of a woman, and the Reeds were no outlaws. She rode up close to Gendry to ask, but he just made a gruff noise and shrugged his shoulders before riding on. She would get nowhere with him, she soon realised.

When at last they stopped near the Blue Fork of the Trident (or so she believed), beneath the shadow of a hill, Arya was puzzled. It had long since grown dark, and Arya would soon have to rely on her other senses to see once again. She pondered if perhaps they had returned to High Heart, if perhaps the Ghost was the woman they spoke of. But she quickly realised that High Heart was much further south, and she did not remember any ruins there, besides the weirwoods.

As they dismounted, Arya kept her grip on Needle and her eyes watchful, searching the thick forest for this woman they had been speaking of. She saw nothing… then, a rustling in the trees, and shapes materialised out of the darkness.

She recognised Notch, Likely Luke with his long brown hair and many scars, and Mudge and Beardless Dick, who guarded her and Gendry at the battle at the burning septry. Jack-be-lucky was unmistakable with his eyepatch and missing teeth, but she also noticed many were missing. Anguy with his bow, Greenbeard and Watty. The Brotherhood was clearly muched changed since she last saw them, and she did not like all the new faces. It made her uneasy.

“What are you doing here, priest?” Jack asked scornfully, peering at them with his one eye. “I thought you left us for _better things.”_ Thoros sighed, already tired with this well-worn argument. “Here to see th’ lord?” 

“Aye,” Sandor answered for him, pushing through the group to tower over the scarred outlaw, intimidating him into a momentary silence. “Among other things. We have someone he’ll want to see.” He glanced in Arya’s direction, and she couldn’t help but shrink under his gaze. Jack stared at her, but he had stopped scaring her long ago, and even he didn’t seem to recognise her now.

Notch, Beardless Dick and Mudge were staring at her with watery eyes. _At least someone knows me,_ she thought bitterly. But, once again, they were just wasting time as her brother’s body rotted away, and she would never see his face again. He was probably buried already, or worse, burned, and here they were, still south of the bloody Twins, debating over people she had never heard of. Arya was this close to fleeing from them all and making her way alone.

Then a voice sounded from among the trees, deep and gruff, with the gravel that suggested a life-time of hardship and violence. “Show me, then,” it said, before the man it belonged to appeared before them, surrounded by guards with fish sewn onto their breasts. “Who is it I’m apparently _dying_ to see?”

He was tall, with a windburnt, weathered face and grey hair, and Arya could see the faint outline of ringmail beneath his leather. His cloak of red and blue and the trout on his helm marked him for a man of House Tully, but it was the clasp on said cloak that fascinated Arya most. So small any other person would not notice it, but Arya’s keen eyes were drawn to it instantly.

A fish, wrought in obsidian and gold. Arya knew of only one person who might wear such an item, the uncle she had never met. Brynden Blackfish. And there he was, squinting down at her through blue, Tully eyes that had no recognition in them. That made her sad, though it did not surprise her.

Lem stepped forward and bowed before the Blackfish. “Mi’lord,” he said, in a voice quieter than what he was used to, “we heard you were in the Neck. We did not expect to find you so soon.” The Blackfish regarded him with cool disdain, and Arya felt Gendry press close to her side protectively. She shoved him away as subtly as she could.

“Rumours can be misleading,” he said simply, and Arya wondered if he was capable of smiling. She suspected he was not. “We needed rest, to regroup, and prepare for the next assault. My nephew awaits his deliverance, and we plan to give it to him. Who is the boy?” Arya looked up and found the uncle she had never met peering down at her, and soon all the attention was on her skinny form.

Thoros spoke before she had a chance to indignantly shout _'I'm a girl!'_ “Mi’lord, this is Arya of House Stark,” he stated, and Arya lifted her chin and puffed out her chest to match the importance of Thoros’ words. “Recently returned from travels across the Narrow Sea. She’s come home.”

The Blackfish barely reacted to his words as he studied Arya’s face. “How do you know this is my niece?” he asked, without breaking eye contact with her. Arya felt a little intimidated by him, but she had learned long ago how to hide it.

“We met Arya during the war, and intended to bring her to Riverrun,” Thoros said, and Arya noted that he left out the part about a ransom. “That is, before she was kidnapped by Sandor Clegane. Harwin recognised her as Lord Stark’s daughter.” Bryden’s only response was a gravelly huff, but still he continued to stare. Eventually, he took a step and closed the space between them, as everyone else watched with bated breath.

The Blackfish sighed. “You don’t have my niece’s look.” Arya exhaled and cast her gaze downwards. She was not surprised. She had had so many names, so many faces, she was used to not being recognised, even by those she knew. At least now she could make her way North, alone, as she planned.

“But Ned,” he said after a pause, making Arya look up again, full of foolish hope. “I look in your eyes, girl, and there he is, staring back at me. You’re a Stark no doubt, and my blood.” And, before Arya had time to register what was happening, Bryden was on his knees with his sword resting on his palms. “House Tully will never abandon House Stark. My sword is yours, _Arya_.”

Arya felt the tears welling behind her eyes, and before she knew it she had wrapped her arms around her uncle’s neck, forcing him to drop his sword. After a moment of hesitation, he returned the embrace, though somewhat awkwardly. When they parted at last, she saw her uncle’s guards kneeling too, and the sight of it nearly made her break again. Gendry’s look of haughty derision quenched her pride rather quickly.

“Thank you, uncle,” Arya said meekly, “but I must continue North. My brother, Jon Snow --”

“Is dead,” he concluded. “Yes, we heard. I’m sorry, but there is nothing to be done for him now.”

“I want to bury him,” Arya insisted. “I want to see his face again. He was the only family I had left.” When she said that, a hush fell over the Brotherhood. Brynden locked eyes with Thoros, but Arya was too weary to care about their secrets anymore.

“I will take you North,” the Blackfish promised her, “I swear it. But first, you must rest and eat and restore your strength. Besides, there is someone you should meet.” The outlaw they spoke of so vaguely, Arya assumed, and she had lost the strength to argue. She let the Blackfish walk her to the overgrown path that led up the hill. “Come, child. My lady waits above.”

* * *

As they walked the overgrown path to the top of the hill, Arya realised they were at Oldstones, once the seat of House Mudd. She had learned about the River Kings with Maester Luwin back in Winterfell, though she struggled to remember much of those lessons as she walked. Vaguely, she recalled a sad song about Jenny of Oldstones; her sister Sansa must have cried at it a dozen times, but it was the Ghost of High Heart that entered her thoughts then.

The memory of the pale woman, glaring at Arya with those red eyes, and then weeping at something as simple as a song, struck at her soul. She rather feared that the scar from that blow would never leave her.

Oldstones was once a great keep, Arya did not doubt, but only the foundations remained among the weeds to show where the dismantled walls of Oldstones had once stood. The curtain wall had fallen away to a few waist-high piles of crumbling stone spotted with lichen, and mossy hummocks were the only real remnant of the keep itself. She could see a godswood beyond that though, and just the sight of it made her feel brave.

The outlaws filled the grassy space, joining with men who had remained amongst the ruin. She spotted Greenbeard sitting on a stone and sharpening a knife, and the Mad Huntsman was there too. At last she spotted Anguy, greeting Lem and Gendry like old friends, the only one to show any recognition for her at all. A weak smile, but at least it was something.

Soon enough, Arya’s gaze fell on a stone stomb in the centre of the clearing, a great carved sepulchre in the image of a king. It was half-shrouded in darkness amongst tall grass and ash trees, but Arya’s keen grey eyes sought it out, and she wondered which king was buried there and how long he had been dead. Centuries, by the look of the cracked and crumbling stone and the wild roses creeping over the king’s feet. 

She looked up at the Blackfish, who encouraged her forward with a small nod. He himself strode further into the ruins, and Arya cautiously followed suit. It was Harwin she recognised first, standing behind the grave like a carved sentinel, guarding something. What, she could not say.

And then she saw it. _Or was it a person?_ For a moment the black sky kept her from seeing, but then she noticed the frayed edges of a black hood, and what looked to be a ring of small swords resting on the rock. Harwin’s face paled, and Arya’s curiosity and good sense warred to decide if she would investigate further.

As usual, curiosity won out.

Warily, she approached, and the figure became clearer before her eyes, though the face remained hidden. Arya saw pale, bony fingers peeking out from beneath the cloak, long nails stained with blood that was seeping into the stone. The moon was full, casting pale light upon the silent spectre, and Arya felt that familiar feeling of foreboding rise in her throat. So thick, it almost choked her.

Strangely, all around her were silent and apprehensive, only serving to increase her fear. Arya continued forward, mud squelching beneath her feet. For a moment, she could hear the sounds of Gendry breathing and smell the freshly melted snow she walked on. Just like her wolf dreams. But it passed like a fleeting shadow, and she was a girl again. A girl and a ghost.

Then, the ghost moved, and Arya nearly jumped out of her skin. It was only a hand, creeping out to grasp the ring of swords before her, which Arya now realised was a circlet of sorts, though nothing like one she had ever seen before. The other lifted and disappeared into the dark robes about where a neck should be. Harwin bent down to lend his ear to the figure, and Arya looked around for a friend to explain what was going on. 

They all watched her, but none would help. Apparently, this was her fight, and hers alone.

Harwin nodded and rose to his full height. “Mi’lord Blackfish!” he called, overlooking Arya entirely. “The night is dark, and mi’lady’s eyes are tired. She asks what you have brought before her.” The Blackfish stepped forward and dragged Arya along with him, until Arya was close enough to see wisps of white hair visible beneath the hood, being buffeted by the light breeze.

“My lady will want to see this for herself,” came the Blackfish’s only answer. Harwin bent down again to hear her response, and Arya shifted anxiously on her toes. Something about this made her feel self-conscious, and she immediately tried to brush her hair out with her fingers to look more presentable. The braids, however, made that impossible, and her chapped fingers fell limply to her sides.

Arya’s heart was in her throat as the spectre rose and took agonisingly slow steps round the tomb. Suddenly, she could smell death on the air, cloying at her throat with a sickly, sweet scent; she understood what the Ghost of High Heart felt about her now, for the scent brought fear with it. Still, Arya stood firm, even as the figure stood only a few steps before her, and she caught sight of her neck, slit so deep she could see the bone and rotted flesh beneath the pale skin.

No one moved, no one spoke, no one dared even breathe, as their ‘lady’ lifted her vengeful gaze to Arya’s face. As soon as she did, it melted away to a look of shock and wonder, yet Arya still reeled from the sight of her face. Her skin was hanging off her bones, decaying and grey, marked by red, searing claw marks stretching down her cheeks. Arya was mystified and horrified, but above all, confused. Who was she?

The woman breathed out a harsh, choked sound. Arya almost heard her name. She studied the lady’s features, searching for something she knew, but came up short.

Until, she looked in her eyes. And then it hit her like the blunt side of an axe, because of those eyes. They had not changed, despite it all. Yet, it made no sense. _I saw her dead,_ Arya thought. _I saw_ you _dead. I dragged your body from the river._ She had seen far stranger things than this, to be sure, but even so accepting the fact her mother was dead had been a trial like no other, and it had made her strong. To find out it was a lie?

And yet, she could not deny those eyes. They were her mother’s, she knew that beyond all doubt. And this time, she did not need Harwin to tell her when her mother croaked out her name, or the word “daughter.” Slowly, her mother’s arms opened to her, breaking the last bit of resolve Arya had managed to cling on to.

“Mother?” she squeaked, tears filling her grey eyes. And she fell into her mother’s cold arms, weeping.

* * *

_She had run through forests and rivers that night, hundreds of small cousins at her back, desperate to reach something far away. She could not say what it is, only that another day without it would likely kill her._

Arya stood atop the hill, the ruins of Oldstones at her back, absorbed by swirling thoughts and feelings, which were not helped by the sight of two identical castles in the distance. She could smell dirt and blood on the air, and something else. Something sweet, too. It mingled poorly with the salt in her tears.

She heard his footsteps long before he came to stand beside her. Brynden Tully was her family, though she did not know him well. He was the only family she had left, and it was clear he cared for her, and she had grown tired of being alone.

“What do I do?” she found herself asking aloud, though she had every intention of keeping that thought to herself. Her uncle glanced at her curiously, the wind whipping through his grey hair. “My mother was dead. I pulled her body from the river.” That made him narrow his eyes, a question lost in them, but she had no desire to answer it. “I came here to bury my brother, and now I’m lost again. I don’t know what to do.”

Brynden sighed and turned to face her fully, though Arya kept her gaze fixed on the faint shadow of one of her worst memories behind the clouds. “Child,” he said sadly, “I have lost a brother, a niece, a nephew, my land and my king. I alone prevailed. Why, I cannot say. Gods know many deserved it more than me. But here I am. And you know what kept standing through all of it?” She looked up at him then and shook her head. “Justice. Just the thought of it, of one day taking it all back, for the living and the dead. Of putting all those who deserved it to the sword. I see the same desire in your eyes. Am I wrong?”

Arya said nothing, but he was not wrong and they both knew it. “Why do you strive so hard to reach your brother?” he asked. Arya thought it a stupid question. _Of course I came after him,_ she thought. He was her brother, her last brother and her closest, and he had been killed by cowards. She needed to see their heads part from their shoulders. She needed to bury him herself. She needed to see justice done.

“He cannot be buried in Winterfell,” the Blackfish continued, “as the Boltons still hold it. I never met the lad, though I disliked him for my niece’s sake, but he was Ned Stark’s son. He should be buried with his father. Alas, that is impossible.” Arya knew he was right, though she was loath to admit it. “You love him, of course...” To Arya’s ears that sounded like an accusation, though, of course, it wasn’t. “...but more than that, you want to bring his killers to task, to right a wrong…” His gaze was searing and searching, and Arya could sense a word was balancing on the tip of his tongue.

“Justice.” She finished the thought for him, and it was not hard to sense what he was leading to. Still, she could not fathom it. “Why me? You have the respect of these men, the Tully name. Why not lead them yourself?”

“I was never meant to be a lord,” he answered. “That was always my brother’s role. I am a soldier, and all soldiers need a commander. Despite your youth, I think that could be you. These men have told me how you survived, how you thrived. _Ned Stark’s valiant little girl._ That is a name men will rally behind, a name men will fight and die for. And more than that, once they know you, they will fight for you too.”

Arya sighed and let the wind prick at her eyes until tears rolled down her cheeks. “He will likely be buried by the time I reach him,” she said despondently. It was a fact she had been stubbornly unwilling to accept until then, and the weight of it crushed her more than she expected. The Blackfish placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him

“I understand your pain, child,” he said in his fatherly tone, “I really do. But he is dead. And there are thousands of voices here calling out for a saviour. What option is left to you, but to answer?” Arya turned away from him then, turning her gaze South instead of North, his words ringing in her ears. Somewhere out there was Riverrun, her family’s home, now in the hands of their enemies. It made her blood boil.

“We heard on the road there was to be a wedding,” she said, knowing her uncle was still listening aptly. For a moment, the scent of blood filled her nose, but it disappeared as soon as he came to stand at her side.

“Aye,” Brynden replied, “between Lannister and Frey, at Riverrun. Your mother is of a mind to attend, and repeat history. I must admit, the idea is not without its merits.” The darkest part of her chuckled at that, though she had learned how to hide it well.

“Prisoners?” As soon as Arya said the word, she heard snow crunching beneath paws, heavy panting, snarling and gnashing teeth. She turned her head towards the sound, but, just like before, it evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

“Some,” he admitted. “From the wedding, as well as my nephew, his wife… Robb’s wife. All are being transported to Casterly Rock. They have likely passed this spot by now, heading South and West. We had hoped to free them.”

“Aye,” she echoed. Arya began formulating a plan, but those sounds and smells returned, distracting her entirely. Something was wrong, she could sense it. “Do you hear that?” Brynden glanced at her curiously. “Do you smell that?” She turned to the North, her senses dictating her every move, and she realised that what she searched for lay in the forest below.

“Mi’lord! Arya!” The calls of Gendry and Ned, approaching them from their camp amongst the ruins, echoed in the back of her mind like some long-forgotten dream. Only this was real. She needed to find out what it was. Without another thought, she sprinted across the grass and down the hill, ignoring the cries and footsteps behind her.

She was filled with determination and a rush of hope as she raced down the bank, and it made her less sure-footed than she had been trained to be. Before long, she caught her foot on a protruding stone that sent her careening down the mound. She lost control and could do nothing to stop her furious progress. It ended abruptly when she bashed into a tree at the foot of the hill, knocking the air from her lungs.

Arya lay there for a moment, regaining her breath and her sensibilities. Until she heard it again, and was filled with renewed vigour. She stood, all too aware of the bruises she would gain and the mud staining almost every inch of her clothes and hair, but it did not concern her. She set off at a run, darting past trees and bushes, feeling like the child she once was playing with her brothers in the Godswood.

Coming to a clearing, she lost the scent and the sound faded away into nothing. Arya looked around frantically, but it was gone, and she felt tears prick at her eyes again. Three pairs of footsteps soon approached but Arya knew they belonged to Gendry, Ned and Brynden from the sound.

“Arya!” Gendry yelled, fiery anger behind his eyes. “What in Seven Hells were you doing?” Arya had no answer for him. She didn’t know what she was expecting, for she always ended up disappointed. Even after all this time, no matter how much she grew, she always hoped. _I was being stupid,_ she thought. _I am stupid._ A stupid little girl who never learns.

“Do you hear that?” It was Ned who spoke. Sure enough, they all heard it. A rustling in the trees, making them all draw their weapons. But Arya was unafraid, even as they saw eyes appear in the darkness. Dozens, no, hundreds of them, in all shades, and soon enough they caught sight of the wolves they belonged to. With grey fur, a hungry gaze and snarling jaws, they moved in slowly, encircling the group and putting them on the defensive. Yet, they made no move to attack. Arya knew why; they were waiting for their alpha to give the order.

Foolishly, she hoped, and for the first time, that hope was rewarded. Arya turned and saw her, standing on an outcrop above the rest, though she needed nothing to be larger than any of them. A direwolf would grow taller than a horse and was five times as powerful, and Nymeria was even greater than that. She was an alpha, and they all knew it.

Arya stepped forward, her hand outstretched and a tearful smile on her face. Nymeria was growling hungrily, her eyes filled with aggression, but when one of her pack tried to leap for Ned she held them back with a glance. Arya was undeterred. 

“Nymeria?” she said, though she knew it was her. After all this time, all this hardship, all those dreams, they were in front of one another at last, Arya prayed they would never part again. Nymeria stared at her with golden eyes, and all of a sudden her snarl melted away and Arya almost saw a smile as her tongue lolled out of her mouth. Salty tears streamed down Arya’s cheeks but her smile was bigger than ever, as her hand brushed the fur on her snout.

In a moment, Nymeria leapt forward, knocking Arya to the ground as the wolf licked her all over. For a moment, her companions were horrified, until they heard Arya’s laughter and realised her shouts of protest were only playful. Nymeria was of monstrous size, but to Arya, who hugged her back as tightly as she was able, she was still that pup she fell in love with at Winterfell. Nothing would change that.

“You really are a strange one, Arry,” Gendry remarked, wonder in his voice. Ned was grinning broadly and Brynden was staring at the pack in awe, but to Arya they were already her family. And they seemed to know it too. She managed to escape Nymeria’s clutches and came to kneel in front of her, staring into those eyes that knew her so well.

“Uncle?” she called, drawing his attention away from their terrifying new family. “Do you have a plan?”

“Half of one,” he admitted, making Arya bite her lip and smile. He stared at her curiously, trying to divine what was in her mind. Eventually, he gave up. “Why? What are you thinking?” 

She grinned devilishly at him, a wicked idea forming in her mind. Yet, she only needed two words to express it.

“Weasel soup.”


End file.
